


Then Again, Incidentally, If You're That Way Inclined

by dedicatedfollower467



Series: Whatever This World Can Give to Me [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Business, Canon Compliant, Guilt, Guilty Pleasures, M/M, Middle Ages, Missing Scene, Pre-Slash, Taverns, The Making of an Arrangement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 12:15:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19376512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedicatedfollower467/pseuds/dedicatedfollower467
Summary: "I’ve been thinking that… there’s no reason two sensible, intelligent beings like ourselves can’t come to some sort of… arrangement.”A crowded pub, a pair of supernatural beings, two glasses of barley wine, a meat pie, and the beginnings of an Arrangement.





	Then Again, Incidentally, If You're That Way Inclined

**Author's Note:**

> Title this time comes from "Killer Queen."
> 
> No beta for this one, so please do let me know if you see any obvious mistakes! Incidentally, I am in the market for a beta reader, so if you're interested, hit me up over on Tumblr! I'm dedicatedfollower467

The tavern is crowded and loud, overspilling its doors with the merrymaking of the town, and it’s making Aziraphale very nervous. As he presses his back to the wall at a table for two in the corner, a woman in a low-cut red dress gives him a saucy wink and blows a kiss his direction. He draws his thick brown hood closer around his head and pretends he didn’t see her.

Where in Heaven’s name is Crowley? The demon had suggested this pub as a good place to meet inconspicuously, and now he is regretting trusting the wily old snake. Another one of his ridiculous pranks, no doubt, and it makes Aziraphale feel ill, because he really had wanted to have a serious discussion.

Aziraphale is so caught up with worrying and feeling foolish he almost misses the moment when the person he’s been waiting for slides into the seat across from him.

“Sorry I’m late, Aziraphale, horses don’t like me much,” Crowley says, “Is there a reason you’re wearing that ridiculous cloak?”

Aziraphale glares at him. “ _Don’t_ go using my name!” he hisses. “And I’m trying to be _inconspicuous_ , which you obviously haven’t even attempted.”

The demon is wearing a long black silk tunic, intricately embroidered with designs of snakes and leaves in a royal purple. His black hose are so tight-fitting Aziraphale can see every dimple of his knees. A thick black leather belt cinches the whole thing together, with a small French-style cape draped across one shoulder and fastened with a sparkling brooch that looks hideously expensive.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Inconspicuous? Sitting in an unnaturally dark corner by yourself like a huge brown lump and jerking your eyes away every time anyone so much as looks at you? Everything about you _screams_ ‘guilty conscience,’ angel. Makes you stick out like a crow in a flock of doves.”

The demon waves a hand at himself with an unaffected air. “Whereas I, since I am wearing my usual clothing and am acting nonchalant about this whole state of affairs, am practically invisible in this atmosphere. Nobody’s going to notice me.”

Aziraphale feels his face twitch. “Well, regardless,” he whispers, leaning forward across the table. “There’s something I have to talk to you about.”

“I gathered,” says Crowley. “It’s not every day I get a letter arranging for a meeting from an _angel_.”

“Yes, I know, shhh,” Aziraphale says. “Listen, I was thinking…”

His palms are sweating. Bodies are such curious things, and he’s had his for about five thousand years now, and he would have thought he’d gotten used to all their little foibles, but he still can’t fathom what God’s plan was, making palms sweat when one is anxious. Aziraphale rather suspects it’s got nothing to do with the Almighty at all, and is instead a poor practical joke some bored angel decided to play on humanity.

Crowley keeps looking at him, as if telling him to get on with it.

“I was thinking…” Aziraphale says again, faltering. “Er, that is…”

Crowley closes his eyes and hangs his head, sighing. “Look, would it help if I bought you a drink?” he says.

“What?” Aziraphale says.

“We’re in a tavern, right?” says Crowley. “That’s what taverns are for, is drinking. And food. Look, I think you’ll feel better if you have a little wine and something to eat, you’re making me cry, angel.”

Aziraphale bites his lip. “Well,” he says. “I, er, I _have_ been watching them bring out portions of that meat pie and it smells absolutely _heavenly._ ”

With a smirk, Crowley flags down a barmaid. “Two glasses of your finest barley wine,” he says, glancing at Aziraphale in a way that makes him feel dreadfully overheated. “And a slice of the meat pie for my friend here.” He holds out a shiny coin worth far more than the price of the meal, and the woman snatches it up.

Aziraphale watches the woman walk away, her eyes as round as saucers and grinning at the generosity that will no doubt go towards feeding her family that week. “That was very kind of you,” he says.

Crowley scowls. “It’s called _greed_ , angel, and it’s a cardinal sin, and I’m out here fomenting it. Besides, if she goes around waving it about like that, she’s liable to get robbed.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and feels the slight tingling as holy energy flows through him. “She won’t get robbed,” he says, with absolute certainty. “In fact, the two men eyeing her just now have both spontaneously developed quite painful genital rashes and I think they’ll be far too uncomfortable to give her any trouble.”

Crowley shoots him a glance that is almost approving, and Aziraphale doesn’t know how to deal with the weird combination of pride and shame that having Crowley’s approval fills him with. This would be a much easier conversation, he thinks, if he didn’t care so much about the demon.

The maid returns with their barley wine and Aziraphale’s slice of meat pie. He is abnormally aware of Crowley’s eyes on him as he picks up his fork and begins to eat it. It’s incredible, it truly is, and he tries not to moan as he lets the savory flavors melt on his tongue.

“You really like food, don’t you, angel?” Crowley says, and sips at his glass with a smirk that ruffles Aziraphale’s feathers*.

“Well, yes.” There’s no point in lying. Crowley _knows_ he likes food, just like he knows that Crowley likes sleeping. Aziraphale is aware it can become a bit of a vice, in humans, but as far as he’s concerned, it’s a harmless one. The Almighty wouldn’t have made bodies so good at sensing taste if They hadn’t wanted people to enjoy it.

Crowley continues to smile, and Aziraphale grabs his own barley wine to cover how flustered he feels. It’s quite good, actually.

“You had a proposal for me, I believe,” Crowley says.

“Er, yes.” Aziraphale dabs at his mouth with a napkin. “A business proposal, of sorts.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Now what kind of business could an angel possibly have with a demon?” he says.

“Don’t be sarcastic, I’m nervous enough as it is,” Aziraphale says, rather more sharply than he had intended.

Raising hands and eyebrows, Crowley gives Aziraphale a look over his dark glasses. “All right, fine, I won’t,” he says. “What kind of business proposal?”

Aziraphale licks his lips. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, a while back. About - about how we’re sort of cancelling each other out.”

Crowley leans forward, a genuine smile playing around his lips. “And?” he says, his voice dropping into the register that Aziraphale can’t help but think of as ‘seductive.’

“And I’ve been thinking that… there’s no reason two sensible, intelligent beings like ourselves can’t come to some sort of… arrangement.”

He flinches as he says the last word, and half-expects God Themself to smite him with a lightning bolt, turn him in a pile of faintly angelic ash. Or for his wings to burn away and to be cast down into the Pit. Because it’s one thing to care for a demon, even to _love_ a demon the way Aziraphale sometimes has to admit in his heart of hearts he truly does, but it’s another entirely to _work with_ a demon.

No blast of divine fire obliterates him, and he’s pretty sure he would know if he had suddenly Fallen. That slight confirmation that either Upstairs isn’t listening in right now, or it truly isn’t such a bad thing in the first place, allows Aziraphale to relax for the first time this whole evening. Although he hopes it’s the latter case, he knows it’s more likely that no one is paying attention to him.

No one except Crowley, who sits back with a satisfied expression. “What sort of Arrangement?” He roles the Rs and pops the T with a precise and overly careful pronunciation that Aziraphale thinks might be a little dig at him.

Aziraphale lets out a controlled breath. “I’ve got a couple of big jobs coming up this week,” he whispers. “Only - only they’re on opposite sides of the continent, and I’d rather I didn’t have to run all over the place doing miracles and such.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows again. He is also, once more, smirking. “So, what, you expect _me_ to your job for you?”

Aziraphale bites his lip, wipes his hand against his leg. Because this is the bit he’s been thinking of that he’s been dreading. Crowley is, despite everything, a very dear friend to Aziraphale, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a _demon_ , and it certainly doesn’t mean that he holds Aziraphale in anywhere near the same regard. Plus, what Aziraphale is about to offer could very well be the final straw with Heaven.

“I’d owe you a favor,” he whispers. “Of course, I couldn’t do anything truly evil but… well, a spot of temptation here or there… if it was on my way. And - and ideally this wouldn’t be a one-time thing. For either of us.”

Still no blasts of light from Heaven striking him down. Seems he’s gotten lucky.

Crowley sits back, eyes still intently fixed on Aziraphale’s face. “I know what it costs you to offer that,” he says somberly, and Aziraphale thinks half-hysterically that yes, a demon _would_ know quite precisely what he could lose, in this deal.

Which is why he trusts that Crowley won’t ever ask him for something beyond what he’s able to give.

The smile snaps back onto Crowley’s face, and he sticks out his hand. “All right, you’ve got yourself a deal,” he says. “As it happens there’s a man in Norway I’m supposed to tempt into theft next week. It wouldn’t happen to be on your way, would it?”

Aziraphale reaches for the outstretched hand and clasps it. “I’ll - yes. I’ll do it.”

“Right.” Crowley gives his hand a firm shake, then releases it and sits back again. “That’s settled then. Pleasure doing business with you, angel.”

The demon makes no move to stand, and neither does Aziraphale. Instead, he takes another bite of his meat pie.

“Likewise,” he says, and raises his glass. “To sensible arrangements.”

Crowley raises his own glass and clinks it to Aziraphale’s. “To arrangements,” he agrees.

 

* Literally. Aziraphale can _feel_ his primaries getting out of alignment with every glance. [return to text]


End file.
